Host Parasite Host
by sad little tiger
Summary: In which our hero, Chris Redfield, questions his sanity... and the nature of his relationship with a certain man. AU, Post-RE5. Chris/Wesker
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: This story was originally written in 2010. It was my first venture into the Resident Evil fandom. It holds a special place in my heart and it's really, really amateur. I haven't edited it at all since I wrote it, except to try and catch any of the "blonds" spelled with an "e" (I probably missed some). Enjoy!**

 **slt.**

* * *

" _Fuck…_ "

All he could remember was the fight. The plane was out of control. Turbulence, lots of it. And they went down in the middle of an African storm.

He was on the ground now. All around him, the wreckage of Wesker's military jet lay, a mangled reminder of what had happened. A huge propeller was to his right, the blades inside stalled. A small fire was burning itself out in what was left of the torn-open cockpit. Chris let his head fall back to the ground and looked up. He winced and turned his face to the side then, eyes screwing shut. The sun was at high noon above the grasslands. Cicadas whirred and buzzed in the leaves of baobab trees, creating an eerie soundtrack for the midday savanna.

Chris's hands busied themselves with a protrusion in his right side. He felt around the piece of shrapnel, lodged deeply between his ribs. It was a scrap of riveted metal from the wall of the jet – nearly a foot in length, six inches across at its widest point, triangular. His fingers tested the edges of the sheet metal. Chris gasped and grunted. He tried to sit but found the pain to be too intense.

Instead, he held his gloved hands out in front of his face, squinting against the sun. Just as he had feared, they were covered in blood. He looked down the flank of his body. Blood was seeping out of the wound and staining the sand that he lay on. He laid his head back and closed his eyes. It was not looking good for him. He needed medical attention now.

"Sheva!" It took nearly all of his strength to call her name. He cried out and wheezed from the exertion. He imagined that his right lung may have been punctured, that it was filling with blood. His throat grew dry and tight. He was going to die out here, alone, in the middle of Africa.

"Sheva!" he yelled again. Briefly, his world went black and slowly came back into focus. The pain in his ribs was throbbing with every breath. He felt dizzy and nauseous. Sweat dripped steadily from his forehead down into his hairline. Little rivulets of clean skin showed on his face where tears had streamed through the soot and dirt. Flies were already congregating around him in a cloud, wanting the wound. He was afraid. More afraid than he'd been in a long time.

Chris breathed as deeply as possible and moved his legs, kicking them out, trying to push his body further from the wreckage. A weak moan escaped from him. He moved steadily onward this way – his back leaving a trail in the sand and grass, blood streaking the ground. Every few feet, he would stop and gasp for air.

* * *

Wesker watched with detachment. He stood noiselessly next to the dismembered propeller. The grassland air hung with the stench of jet fuel. Through that, Wesker could smell what he was seeing – the agony of Chris Redfield. The scent of blood both repulsed and aroused something in him. Here, outside of civilization, he could feel his dual nature with an intensity not normally known to him. He watched, unblinking eyes, as an oblivious Chris moved like a crushed bug, pushing his damaged body away. Wesker could hardly contain the smile that was tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Chris paused, sensing something wasn't right. He held what little breath he had and his hand went to the gun in the underarm holster. Suddenly, the sun was blocked. Chris ripped the gun from his side and aimed it at the figure above him. Through one squinted, tearing eye, he made out the shape of a man. They were wordless for a moment. Chris's breathing was labored and his body exhausted. Nevertheless, he continued to keep the weapon steady. Wesker crossed his arms and stared down smugly.

"Fuck. Off." Chris's voice rattled in his chest.

Wesker raised his eyebrows and nodded, smirking. He liked that there was still fight in Chris. It was… interesting. He glanced around. The shimmering air was heavy with humidity. Although he was unaffected by climate, he knew that the temperature was approaching 110 degrees. Off in the distance there was an endless horizon, broken up by small clusters of shade-giving trees. A flock of birds flew above.

"They'll be here soon, you piece of shit. They'll crash your little fucking party and you'll wish your mother would have swallowed you." Chris followed this up with a wet cough.

Wesker's attention returned to Chris and he coolly surveyed the wound. He knew just by looking that it probably wasn't life threatening, but it was far from his role to assuage Chris's feelings of impending doom. Quite the opposite. Wesker also knew that the scavengers would arrive soon. Vultures, lions, hyenas, wild dogs. They would all smell the fleshy delights that Chris had to offer. There was a plethora of ways to die in Africa and here was Chris: immobile, in a great deal of pain, stinking of blood. It was almost pitiable. Wesker thumbed his nose in thought. He looked as if he might speak but decided not to. He was suddenly gone from Chris's side. The sun blasted Chris's face again, threatening to blind him. Little black spots appeared in his peripheral vision and faded away.

Chris craned his head upside down to watch Wesker stalk off. The vision of the lanky blond through the oppressive heat was quaking and shaky. As he had always been, Wesker became nothing more than a mirage to Chris.

"What the fuck… Shit. _Shit_ ," was all Chris could muster as he lay panting in the dirt.

* * *

It was dusk when Chris heard the laugh of a hyena for the first time. He shivered and his shirt cracked with dried blood. The dying sun sank slowly and cast a red glow on the grasslands. He held his gun up in front of his face and checked the cartridge. 7 bullets. Chris dropped his arms to his chest, gun clutched protectively to his body, and he waited.

The clouds were painted hues of violet and pink by the last light of day. The air had a chill to it now. It was pleasant for the time being, but Chris knew that it would become dangerously cold soon. The sweat that soaked his shirt was already making his skin tingly and numb. If he persisted out here in this condition for another day, and the animals or the wound didn't kill him, hypothermia would. He wondered about Sheva. He was certain she was dead.

He was thirsty but his mind wouldn't let him feel the true extent of it. His body was still humming with adrenaline. The pain in his ribs was growing though. And he was still under the impression that he might be bleeding out from the inside.

The hyena's cries drew closer. It was answered by another dog off in the brush. Keeping the gun gripped tightly on his chest, Chris's lips moved in a silent prayer.

"Our Father, who art in heaven…"

A hyena appeared from the taller grass to Chris's right. It was a big animal – he hadn't realized exactly how big they really were.

"Hallowed be thy name…"

Chris could smell the hyena now. Drool hung from its open jowls and it whimpered with hunger. Dark beady eyes travelled down the length of Chris's body and an eager snout snorted the air.

"Thy kingdom come; Thy will be done…"

Chris aimed the gun. The hyena approached slowly in a zigzagged path. When it was within six feet of Chris, it growled. And Chris fired twice. The animal collapsed and whined as it died.

"… on earth as it is in heaven."

Another hyena broke from the brush line, and another behind it. Chris could barely see them from over his feet. He struggled to a half-sitting position, his weight resting on his left arm, bent at the elbow. Ignoring the searing pain in his side, he fired at them and missed. Fired again and missed. The dogs advanced and retreated like this several times until Chris was down to his last bullet.

He swallowed and bitterly reflected on his last day. The entire pack was closing in now.

" _Give us our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses…"_

One of the beasts darted at Chris from behind and nipped his neck, clipping the tender flesh with its fangs. Chris arched his back. He knew how this would go. First blood had been drawn. It was time.

Chris had been into fishing once, before Umbrella had consumed his existence. He'd gone out by himself to camp in Yellow Stone and had run into a wolf pack. They'd trapped a fawn in the thickets. Chris recalled how it had bleated miserably as the pack circled it and bit at its awkward spindly legs. A wolf finally managed to pull it down by the throat and the others immediately fell upon it.

They'd started eating the poor bastard before it was even dead.

Chris would not be the fawn. He leveled the gun at his temple.

"… _as we forgive those that trespass us…,"_ he whispered aloud.

Chris held his breath and squeezed his eyes shut.

There was a deafening silence around him. It was as if time had stopped. Even the bugs had stilled their cacophony in the trees.

Reluctantly, Chris half-opened his eyes, gun still aimed at his head.

The hyenas were fleeing in the distance - running off in every direction. Chris's muddled brain couldn't understand it.

Seeing his chance, Wesker gripped the barrel of Chris's gun from behind and wrenched it from his hand. In complete surprise, Chris let this happen and was pulled backwards from the force of the struggle.

Once again, Chris found himself looking up at the blonde, stunned.

"Suicide is such an undignified way to die, Chris."


	2. Chapter 2

"I'm really not even sure why I'm here," Chris said suddenly. He crossed his arms in front of himself. The leather couch squeaked beneath his legs.

"Well, Mister… Redfield, you indicated that you're having trouble coping with stressors and that you're questioning your orientation."

"I'm not questioning my orientation."

The psychologist glanced at Chris and then paged through the medical papers. He pulled out a specific sheet and read over it.

"You reported having feelings for an authority figure of the same sex. You also indicated that it's interfering with your marriage. And you're suffering from post traumatic stress – flashbacks, panic attacks, phantom pain."

Chris's lips pulled into a tight line. He said nothing.

The psychologist set the forms down. He folded his hands and looked at the man across the desk. Chris would not meet his gaze. "This will only work if you talk."

Chris ran his tongue over his teeth. He uncrossed his arms, hands in his short hair. He leaned back then, spreading out, subconsciously trying to take up as much space as possible, to take back some kind of power. He'd lost so much just by coming here. _Goddamn Jill…_ "I don't know – I'm not sure…"

"Start at the beginning."

The beginning. Chris looked overwhelmed. The psychologist knew that if he wanted to see that $75 co-pay again, he'd better backtrack. Patients opened up at different times.

"What does that mean?" the psychologist asked, gesturing, deflecting.

Chris stared at the tattoo on the inside of his forearm. A thin green snake circling in on itself, fangs extended. Endless. Beginningless.

"This is confidential, right? No matter what?" Chris asked quietly.

"Yes. Of course."

The men regarded each other.

"This is Uroboros. His name is Albert Wesker."

The psychologist knew Chris _was_ in a covert militia group. How deep the group went or even what they did was a mystery. Whatever it was, it was important and probably terrifying. Nevertheless, Chris's story was already a difficult one to believe. He took down notes about possible causes for delusions of grandeur.

"So this Albert Wesker survived the crash as well?"

The doctor scribbled loudly.

"He survives everything." Chris was deathly serious, eyes down cast. His voice sounded distant. He was someplace else.

The psychologist pressed for clarification, an effort to bring his client back to the session. "He wasn't hurt in the crash?"

"No. He's never 'hurt' really. Not like you or me. He's… not human?" Chris asked, reaching for the words.

"What do you mean by 'not human'?"

Chris paused, collecting his thoughts. He imagined telling the shrink about the time Wesker had been impaled by a monster and then come back to life - changed, _deified_. That was too much though.

"I dunno," Chris said after a few beats. "It is what it is. He lived, right? And he wouldn't let me die."

* * *

The wound gaped. Chris stared at it. When he breathed just so he could see _inside_ of himself. His bloodied fingers touched the ragged edges of the puncture, testing it. He hissed at the pain.

"Stop doing that."

Chris sighed and leaned back against the trunk of the tree. He'd passed out like that, slumped over, when Wesker had pulled the metal from his side. The bark scraped his bare back and he shifted in discomfort. The blonde sat a dozen feet away now, staring off into the grassland. Branches swayed above them both, the ground dappled with light and shadow. The mid-morning sun had already brought the temperature to nearly 90 degrees and although the shade of the tree kept them from most of the blinding rays, the mounting heat was causing the younger man to sweat profusely. The wound burned and wept some.

As if on cue, Wesker turned so that Chris could see his aristocratic profile and said, "You should drink."

The canteen lay on the ground next to Chris. Unopened.

"You are dehydrated."

Chris did not respond.

Wesker turned completely then, facing him. Chris said nothing, did nothing. He refused to make eye contact with the mutant. He would _absolutely not_ give the monster that power. Instead, he seemed to stare through Wesker.

"You will drink the water, Chris," he directed. It was no longer a request. Chris's left eyebrow twitched a little at the blonde's voice. But that was the only reaction he'd allow. He continued to stare blankly.

Wesker stood then. His shadow loomed behind him. He marched toward Chris and it took every ounce of mental strength left in the injured soldier not to flinch. His eyes narrowed and secretly followed Wesker's legs as he angrily grabbed the canteen and shook it next to Chris's face. The water swished around inside. Chris only blinked at this and continued to gaze at the horizon. He ground his teeth. He was very thirsty… but he would be damned if he accepted Wesker's help.

"Drink," Wesker ordered as he thrust the metal container at the younger man.

Chris was motionless and the air around them seemed to hang. The breeze that had provided some relief was slowing now, stopping almost completely. Flies buzzed lazily near Chris, attracted to the wound. He did not bother to bat them away.

Wesker was confused and exasperated. "This is not the time to play games, Chris," his voice dropped an octave. A warning.

The stalemate continued though, despite Wesker's demands.

Until Wesker unscrewed the cap and grabbed a handful of Chris's hair, yanking his head back. The younger man yelped in surprise and seeing his way in, Wesker jammed the neck of the canteen into Redfield's open mouth. The metal clanged against the younger man's teeth, probably chipping a few, and the warm water choked him. He struggled then and grasped at the blonde's wrist, trying to push the container away, trying to stop the gagging. Chris coughed and the let the water come back up, spitting it out. It dribbled down his chin and throat, pooling in crevice of his collar bone.

"Drink, Goddamn you!"

After trying unsuccessfully to force half of the contents of the canteen down Chris's throat, he relented, breathing heavily and eyes glowing with anger. He wanted to bash the idiot's skull in with the damn thing. Chris finally looked up and into the other man's face. Wesker searched Chris's steely blue eyes for a response, a glare, _anything_. Instead, he found a gaze as unreadable as his own. Empty. They were both made of stone.

Chris was still clearing his throat, going into short fits of coughing, but continued to stare into the eyes of the man who had ruined his life. Wesker was trying to calm himself, remind the animal part of him that Chris was useful alive, he needed to live, even though he would have loved to tear the arrogant mortal limb from limb. The grumbling monster inside of him settled.

Keeping Chris's eyes, he set the canteen on the ground, within the other man's reach.

"I am going to leave this here. It would be in your best interest to drink, Chris," he said finally, his voice low and controlled. It nearly killed him to have to address Chris this way. He wanted to break his neck, twist his insignificant head off for his disobedience. But he did not. And not even he was sure why.

Chris was silent and looked peaceful. His breathing had returned to normal and his shoulders relaxed. Wesker backed away, his external composure was regained but he was somewhat unnerved by the entire exchange and Chris's strange demeanor.

When he felt that Wesker had given up enough ground, he picked up the canteen and brought it to his cracked lips, his gaze still on the tall blonde – unwavering and impenetrable. He drank deeply then and set the canteen down.

Wesker inwardly cursed himself. He'd inadvertently let Redfield set the tone. His fury had gotten the better of him and Chris's chilly composure had shown him up.

He knew then he would regret all of this.

* * *

The psychologist's phone rang. He held up a finger to Chris, asking him to pause.

"Yes? No. Reschedule. I know he waited for… Listen, just tell him to reschedule. Tuesdays are good. Yes. Thanks."

Chris waited patiently but his knee bounced out of nervousness.

The psychologist hung up the phone and directed his attention back to Chris.

"Our time is up, right?"

"No. No. Today, I'll make an exception. Let's keep going."

Chris nodded. The room was quiet and both men could hear the ticking of the wall clock.

"So the two of you engaged in a power struggle. Would you say that this characterized your relationship?"

Chris looked down in thought. Finally, he replied, "There's no way to characterize that relationship."


	3. Chapter 3

_Midday._

Wesker wet the bloodied green shirt with what was left in the canteen.

"You should put this over the wound. The thought of digging maggots out of you repulses me."

Chris plastered the wet cloth to his side without so much as a thank you.

The flies continued to buzz but had nowhere to eat.

 _Afternoon._

"Is she dead?" Chris spoke. Wesker listened, tilting his head. The voice sounded hoarse, disconnected. It was strange after the hours of silence.

His back was to the soldier. "Yes."

Chris didn't ask any more questions.

"Part of her is in the branches of that thorn tree. Her torso, I believe."

He motioned with a nod of his head to a tree in the distance, near the crash site. The trees were few and far between here.

Chris's feet moved in the sand. Wesker picked up a pebble and tossed it lazily.

"What was her name? Sheba?"

"Sheva." Chris was quick to correct him.

Wesker tossed another pebble and smiled.

"Ah yes. Sheva of the Whistling Tree." The smile was in his voice.

For the rest of the day, cicadas spoke for them.

 _Dusk._

Wesker returned. He shook the canteen and grinned at Chris.

"Water. There's a river there, to the northwest. The Rufiji, I think."

Chris didn't care. It could have been the Mississippi.

Wesker pulled clumps of dry red grass. He shook the dirt out and piled them. He wore no gloves. Thin pale fingers working.

Next, he hunted for and picked up two rocks. Good sized and grey.

Over and over he pounded the rocks together. Nothing.

Chris watched silently. _Let the tyrant have a go_.

The blonde grew frustrated. Chris could see the change in his face. There were wrinkles where there used to be none. The pale skin looked fragile and thin under the African light.

Wesker threw one rock, grunting. He threw it farther than any man could have thrown it. They watched it sail and hit the ground far away.

He turned then, hands resting on his hips.

Chris dug in one of the pockets of the cargo pants. He produced a lighter, flung it to Wesker's feet. Kept one hand on his rib cage and breathed deeply.

Wesker's nostrils flared. "Prometheus Redfield."

 _Night._

Chris lay on his left side. The fire leapt, sparking.

"What are you going to do now?"

Wesker had his arms around his knees, legs pulled up, feet crossed at the ankles. The leather pants glistened. His eyes were the color of the blaze.

He didn't know. So he did not speak.

"Will you kill me in my sleep?"

Wesker looked up, his eyes the only feature that moved. Chris knew the answer.

Letting his head drop to his arm, Chris drifted. He felt the push and pull of a phantom ocean on his body.

"I'm dying, Wesker."

From across the fire, the blonde smiled. "No, Chris. Unfortunately you are not."

And Chris slept.

* * *

"It sounds like schizoaffective disorder to me." The screech of fork meeting plate at a nearby table made both psychologists cringe.

"I don't know though. He's pretty convincing."

The other smirked. "I bet he is."

The first was thoughtful as he sipped his water.

"You aren't seriously considering what this guy says." Eyebrow cocked, food halfway to mouth.

"It's not… You have to hear him. There's no alogia. No manic states. _Or_ depressive states really. And I wouldn't say he displays affective flattening. It's just -"

"Come on, Bill. He's talking about Africa and a man who looks like Dolph Lundgren and "special powers" and saving the world. He suddenly hates everyone close to him – classic sign, by the way. Psychosis without mood symptoms, right? He's paranoid too, you said that yourself." He pointed with the knife in his right hand. "It's textbook. Case closed." He took a bite of chicken. "Refer him to Ron. A course of Resperidone will fix him right up."

"I don't think drugging him is the answer."

The other man laughed. "I'm sorry, Bill. What profession did you go into again?"

* * *

"You look exhausted," the doctor observed as Chris sat heavily on the couch.

"I am." He rubbed his eyes. "The baby cries all night. Only stops when Jill holds her."

"You don't like to hold the baby?"

"No. No. It's not that. She won't let me."

"Who? Your wife?"

"No. _The baby_. She's fussy. Doesn't like me," Chris said as though everyone knew, waving his hand, dismissing.

The doctor found it odd that Chris repeatedly referred to his only child as "the baby".

He wrote the words _disassociation_ and _projection_ down on the pad in front of him.

"What's her name?"

"Eve."

"And you think Eve doesn't like you?"

"I _know_ she doesn't," Chris replied curtly.

The doctor felt compelled to stop that conversation. The room was already hostile.

"Tell me about Jill."

Chris nodded. "What about her?"

"Anything."

"She's… a terrible cook." He smiled. "She's strong though. And brave. Braver than me. Good with a gun. Pretty."

"How is she brave?"

Chris's eyebrows knitted together, almost defensively. "She would give her life for me. Didn't… wouldn't think twice."

The pen turned over in the doctor's hands.

"But you would do the same, Chris. It's who you are."

The veteran's brow was still furrowed, eyes narrowed and hawk-like.

"Would I?" he asked after a loaded pause.

* * *

 _Morning._

Wesker wrinkled his nose as he lifted the dried shirt. Chris did not wake.

It was the smell that drew him in. He grimaced. Reflex. Human.

The area surrounding was an angry pink, disturbingly hot to the touch, swollen. Red streaks radiated out over his side. The edges of the wound were dry and tight, hardened. The interior of the gash looked wet. The scent was putrid, disarming.

 _Infection._

Wesker poured water over wound from the canteen, flushing it. He pushed at the aching skin, to encourage draining. Bits of dirt swept away. The used water was opaque, clearing out the beginnings of pus. Repeat. Repeat. Until the canteen was empty.

Carefully, he replaced the shirt that had dried in the shape of a rib cage.

Chris was staring at him through half-closed eyes.

They didn't speak. As their words could fork no lightening.

Wesker stood, canteen in hand. He walked off and the sun rose behind him. Birds sang.

 _Midday._

The heat was unbearable.

Wesker sat in the sun. Chris lay slumped over under the tree. Wesker faced him, waiting.

A herd of elephants ambled past. The bull lifted his head when he was downwind of Chris. Ears opened up in alarm. Clouds of dust billowed out around the legs, wrinkled and ancient as redwoods.

They could not smell the other man, though they could see him. He was devoid of scent.

They would remember to keep clear of the strange animal in black.

 _Afternoon._

Wesker had a bag. Inside was his sustenance. The only thing he'd bothered to salvage.

The needle stung when it went in. Stung more when it came out. He clenched and unclenched his fist.

Chris drank warm water. And watched.

He grew weaker.

Vultures overhead.

Black arrows that caught and sang the sun in flight.

 _Evening._

It was a bad fever.

He shuddered, teeth rattling.

Wesker washed the wound. Patient.

In and out of blackness.

 _Night._

Secret prayers of death.

A cold wrist on his forehead. Cold, hard fingertips pressed to his throat. Fast pulse. Shallow breath. The click of a disappointed tongue.

"You must fight, Chris."

 _Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray_.

Eyes illuminated by the fire. Four pairs. Silent paws. Tails moving against the ground.

Wesker was a shadow, a blur. Fury incarnate. He was so unreal that the grass did not know to wave in his wake.

There was a strangled cry. The snap of bones.

Chris threw up where he lay. Only water. It burned his throat. He rolled onto his back.

He opened his eyes at the thud next to him. A body dropped. Warm, dying breath fanned over the skin of his neck. He turned to look.

Wesker sat gracefully and folded his hands in his lap. Closer than before.

Predatory.

The lion Wesker brought blinked once. Twice. And then stilled. Life extinguished.

Chris reached out and touched its face. He tugged on the whiskers and ran a dirty thumb down the fang. He traced the scars on its muzzle. The fur was hard, like a brush. Like Jill's hair brush, the one she'd left at his apartment once upon a time. He'd hated that gesture then. He loved the memory now.

His hand dropped, exhausted. The wound throbbed and was in his feverish dreams as he slept.

"Do not go gently, Chris. Rage."


End file.
